Second Skin
by Hugsiez
Summary: Luka makes a desicion after a night of no sleep. Major angst. Please R&R!


AN- ^_^;; Another Luka angst fic. A thank you goes out to a friend of mine who sorta gave me the idea for it. ^_~ You know who you are. Anyway, hope you like it.  
  
All usual disclaimers apply.  
  
He didn't know how long ago he had stopped trying to go to sleep, but he knew it had been a while. Hours, probably. . . The other doctors had forced him to go lie down and try to sleep so he could be of some help tomorrow, but he just couldn't. All he could do as he laid on the uncomfortable cot he was on was remember what he had done that day. Remember how he had helped to bury his family in some abandoned field close to the city. Through the darkness he raised his hands and looked at them, almost feeling the way that the dirt had seemed to stay on his hands permanently. As if it was some sick reminder that he had not only seen his family die, but also that he had buried them. Even now, hours ago since he had done so, the way that he felt seemed to be the same. He felt so lifeless; alone.  
  
Empty.  
  
His family had died three days ago, and the emptiness only seemed to grow as each hour passed by. He wanted to get up and walk outside and see them come to him; find them alive. He wanted them to tell him that all he had seen three days ago had been only a dream and that they were going to stay with him. That he was never going to be alone.  
  
For the first time in three days, a choked sob escaped from his throat, but he closed his jaw tightly, refusing to cry. He didn't want to cry; it didn't bring back his wife. It didn't bring back his daughter, and it surely didn't bring back his son. No matter what he did or how many times he wished it he knew that it wouldn't make a difference; his family wasn't coming back. And here he was, stuck in a place where he didn't want to be at. Stuck in some damn nightmare that made him feel even more helpless. He hadn't done anything to help save his family, but now there was also nothing that he could do to change anything.  
  
Sitting up, he wiped away the loose tears that had managed to somehow slip out of his eyes. Tears were worthless: They didn't do anything. All they seemed to do was choke him; build up some unknowable force inside of him that only managed to make him feel trapped. As if he couldn't breathe. As if that force seemed to prevent him from breathing or even thinking correctly.  
  
But even thinking was worthless.  
  
Each time that he did think it would only bring back some memory of his children; memories from before the war. Memories from when they were happy. . . Happy and better times when they didn't have to worry about gunfire. When they didn't have to worry about going out for some food or simply looking out the window. That time seemed like ages ago, but now it would never come back, and even if he held those memories dearly, he didn't want them. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to remember their smiles, or their voices. He didn't want to remember his children's laughter or the way that Danjiela said his name. He didn't want any of that because it only seemed to haunt him.  
  
It hurt too badly.  
  
No torture could ever come close to this; this was by far the worst he had ever been hurting. It was a pain that, no matter how many times he tried to get rid of, he couldn't. it seemed to only become a part of him, almost like a second skin that, even if it was invisible, it seemed to burn him.  
  
Closing his eyes, he leaned his head on the cold wall next to the cot and could almost see the explosions in the city. He could almost see the people screaming and trying to hide so that a shot wouldn't get them and kill them or a part of their family. He could almost see the blood staining the pavements of the city and tainting them forever. With each one of those thoughts, his promise to Danjiela suddenly rang in his mind. He had sworn to her that she didn't have to worry about any of that: that he would never let anyone hurt them. That their blood wouldn't be shed, that they would be safe.  
  
But they hadn't been.  
  
He hadn't kept his promise.  
  
The salty taste of tears suddenly became obvious and he furiously wiped them away, keeping his eyes closed. He wanted to stop them, wanted to stop the pain. He wanted to stop the memories. He didn't want to be there any longer.  
  
Reaching for his back pocket, he took out a pocket knife that he had with him, one that his father had given to him when he had graduated from medical school; it had belonged to his grandfather, then to his father, and now it was his. It was an heirloom that would have been given to Marko, but now that wouldn't happen. Now he would never be able to talk to him about anything like that. Idly, he wondered what his grandfather, or even his father, would have done if his wife had been killed the way that his had been. If their children had been ripped away from them the way that his were. Moving the pocket knife after cleaning it, the moonlight suddenly reflected itself on the blade.  
  
This was his way out.  
  
This was his ticket out of his miserable life that he was stuck with. It was his way of shedding off that annoying second skin that only seemed to hurt him. Without a second thought, he looked down at his wrists and carelessly slashed them; first horizontally and then vertically. He had read somewhere that, when cut in a certain angle, the blood would flow out faster but, even if he was a doctor and he was supposed to know, at the moment he couldn't remember. All those facts seemed to be worthless at the moment, actually. . . He just wanted to go. To be finally free and be with his family.  
  
He didn't make a single effort to stop the blood; he wanted it to go away. He wanted the pain to leave his body, and it was. The sense of coldness that he had seemed to keep nestled inside of him finally started to be released and turned into warmth at the thought of finally going away. Numbness suddenly started to overtake him and he smiled weakly as he closed his eyes. The pain was leaving. The pain was going away. . .  
  
"I'm sorry." He fought the unconsciousness only for a short while to whisper again; apologizing to his family for letting them down. For not protecting them. For not helping them. For losing them. Danjiela seemed to be coming to him, with a look of sorrow on her face. Whispering, he tried towards her, but his eyes closed on their own; feeling his body somehow moving. Moving to her, going to her to finally be together again. "I'm sorry. . ."  
  
As his eyes finally closed completely, the door suddenly opened and the light that was outside filled the room; bringing some brightness into the darkness.  
  
"Dr. Kovac? Dr. Kovac. . ."  
  
~~  
  
"Dr. Kovac? Dr. Kovac!"  
  
With a start, Luka opened his eyes and sat up at once when he heard his name. The heat from the Congo had been making him sweat all this time, causing the cold sweat from his dream to be mixed in it.  
  
"Dr. Kovac, we need you out here. We need to get going, the Mai Mai are coming."  
  
"Ok, I'll be right there."  
  
As the door closed, Luka sighed and started to stand up before he turned to his wrists. Two scars on each wrist stood out on his now tanned skin; vertical and horizontal lines that seemed to mark him. It had been years since he had looked at them, always trying to hide them with long sleeves or sweaters, and even with his lab coat, but that dream had reminded him of them. When some people actually noticed and asked about them, he claimed that he had cut himself a long time ago, during the war; that a soldier had done it, and that would usually cause them to drop the subject. He never cleared up that he had done it.  
  
Now, as he looked at them, he remembered the way the doctors yelled at him to stay awake and how the transfusions went on for days. They had 'saved him,' but, to him, they had only condemned him to a life of unhappiness. They had brought back the pain. They had brought back the empty pit that seemed to grow over the last ten years. They had taken away the warmth and the numbness that he had been begging for. . .  
  
Shaking his head, he sighed deeply and stood up, going back to help the patients that he had so they could leave. As he did so, however, his pocket knife fell from his pocket and, when the sun hit it, the sun reflected itself on it. He stared at it for a short while before picking it up and putting it back to where it belonged, trying to start a new day. Trying to hide the pain again, which seemed to be a routine by now.  
  
Trying to ignore the second skin that had seemed to harden long ago. 


End file.
